Modern Romanticism

Deprivation stretches
the angles, letting linger
the distortions,
those that creep up
as you lie down.

You drown in the night,
with tears flooding
the space beside you,
the one reflecting
one twisted image.

A void is releasing
all of its sirens,
all of these screams
you’re containing.

A window is reviewing
the worth of words
you speak to the sky
on broken knees.

What pain for its
exhibition in memories,
revealing a stain
that can’t be cleaned.

Your face has changed,
while your heart
stays the same.

Your eyes are blurred,
reddened from sessions
of expressed agony.

What’s lost is what lives
in more than what’s gone,
after its hand is left
to the descending soil.

What’s loved is eternal
in all that is continuing
to be built, to rise
in its might.